Enter MASTER GOURSEY, reading a letter.

MR GOUR. If that they like, her dowry shall be equal To your son's wealth or possibility: It is a means to make our wives good friends, And to continue friendship 'twixt us two. 'Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, And it hath my consent, because my wife Is sore infected and heart-sick with hate; And I have sought the Galen of advice, Which only tells me this same potion To be most sovereign for her sickness' cure.

Enter FRANK and PHILIP.

Here comes my son, conferring with his friend.— Francis, how do you like your friend's discourse? I know he is persuading to this motion.

FRAN. Father, as matter that befits a friend, But yet not me, that am too young to marry.

MR GOUR. Nay, if thy mind be forward with thy years, The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy, This match is answerable to thy birth; Her blood and portion give each other grace; These indented lines promise a sum, And I do like the value: if it hap Thy liking to accord to my consent, It is a match. Wilt thou go see the maid?

FRAN. Ne'er trust me, father, the shackles[289] of marriage, Which I do see in others, seem so severe, I dare not put my youngling liberty Under the awe of that instruction; And yet I grant the limits of free youth Going astray are often restrain'd by that. But mistress wedlock, to my scholar-thoughts, Will be too curs'd, I fear: O, should she snip My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad, And swear, when I did marry, I was mad!

MR GOUR. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this— Yet, in good faith, thou speak'st not much amiss— When first thy mother's fame to me did come, Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son, And even my words to thee to me he said, And as to me thou say'st to him I said, But in a greater huff and hotter blood,— I tell ye, on youth's tip-toes then I stood: Says he (good faith, this was his very say), "When I was young, I was but reason's fool, And went to wedding as to wisdom's school; It taught me much, and much I did forget, But, beaten much, by it I got some wit; Though I was shackled from an often scout, Yet I would wanton it, when I was out; 'Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet, Restrained liberty attain'd is sweet." Thus said my father to thy father[290], son, And thou mayst do this too, as I have done.

PHIL. In faith, good counsel, Frank: what say'st thou to it?

FRAN. Philip, what should I say?

PHIL. Why, either ay or no.

FRAN. O, but which rather?

PHIL. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father.

FRAN. That's ay then[291]. Ay. O, should it fall out ill, Then I, for I am guilty of that ill!— I'll not be guilty. No.

PHIL. What, backward gone!

FRAN. Philip, no whit backward; that is, on.

PHIL. On, then.

FRAN. O, stay!

PHIL. Tush, there is no good luck in this delay. Come, come; late-comers, man, are shent.

FRAN. Heigho, I fear I shall repent! Well, which way, Philip[292]?

PHIL. Why, this way.

FRAN. Canst thou tell, And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?— But which way, father?

MR GOUR. That way.

FRAN. Ay, you know, You found the way to sorrow long ago. Father, God be wi' ye[293]: you have sent your son To seek on earth an earthly day of doom, Where I shall be adjudged, alack the ruth, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must go; but, by my troth, my mind Is not capable to love [in][294] that kind. O, I have look'd upon this mould of men, As I have done upon a lion's den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wish'd me no acquaintance with his paw: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to prove a Daniel; And, if I do, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wild beasts and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. Ay, but how catch them? marry, in your hand Carry me forth a burning firebrand, For with his sparkling shine, old rumour says, A firebrand the swiftest runner frays: This I may do; but, if it prove not so, Then man goes out to seek his adjunct woe. Philip, away! and, father, now adieu! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you.

MR GOUR. Return, the messenger of joy, my son.

FRAN. Seldom in this world such a work is done.

PHIL. Nay, nay, make haste, it will be quickly night.

FRAN. Why, is it not good to woo by candle-light?

PHIL. But, if we make not haste, they'll be a-bed.

FRAN. The better, candles out and curtains spread.

[Exeunt FRANCIS and PHILIP.]

MR GOUR. I know, though that my son's years be not many, Yet he hath wit to woo as well as any. Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone.

Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY.

Ere she came hither. How now, wife? how is't? What, are ye yet in charity and love With Mistress Barnes?

MRS GOUR. With Mistress Barnes! why Mistress[295] Barnes, I pray?

MR GOUR. Because she is your neighbour and—

MRS GOUR. And what? And a jealous, slandering, spiteful quean she is, One that would blur my reputation With her opprobrious malice, if she could; She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: 'Tis known that I have lived in honest name All my lifetime, and been your right true wife.

MR GOUR. I entertain no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour.

MRS GOUR. And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill-speeches seeks to rot my credit, And eat it with the worm of hate and malice.

MR GOUR. Why, then, preserve it you by patience.

MRS GOUR. By patience! would ye have me shame myself, And cosen myself to bear her injuries? Not while her eyes be open, will I yield A word, a letter, a syllable's value. But equal and make even her wrongs to me To her again.

MR GOUR. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.

MRS GOUR. Am I to blame, sir? pray, what letter's this? [Snatches the letter.]

MR GOUR. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudely to snatch it from me. Give it me.

MRS GOUR. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it.

MR GOUR. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.

MRS GOUR. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholar Good enough to read a letter, sir.

MR GOUR. God's passion, if she know but the contents, She'll seek to cross this match! she shall not read it. [Aside.] Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me.

MRS GOUR. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.

MR GOUR. What, will you move me to impatience, then?

MRS GOUR. Tut, tell not me of your impatience; But since you talk, sir, of impatience, You shall not have the letter, by this light, Till I have read it; soul, I'll burn it first!

MR GOUR. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter; In troth, I shall grow angry, if you do not.

MRS GOUR. Grow to the house-top with your anger, sir! Ne'er tell me, I care not thus much for it.

MR GOUR. Well, I can bear enough, but not too much. Come, give it me; 'twere best you be persuaded; By God—ye make me swear—now God forgive me!— Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.

MRS GOUR. Heart me no hearts! you shall not have it, sir, No, you shall not; ne'er look so big, I will not be afraid at your great looks; You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it.

MR GOUR. Shall I not have it? in troth, I'll try that: Minion, I'll ha''t; shall I not ha''t?—I am loth— Go to, take pausement, be advis'd— In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it— A woman of your years! I am asham'd A couple of so long continuance Should thus—God's foot—I cry God heart'ly mercy!— Go to, ye vex me; and I'll vex ye for it; Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad To tender it on your knees; hear ye, I will, I will. What, worse and worse stomach! true faith, Shall I be cross'd by you in my old age? And where I should have greatest comfort, too, A nurse of you?—nurse in the devil's name!— Go to, mistress; by God's precious deer, If ye delay—

MRS GOUR. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit Are you in, husband! so enrag'd, so mov'd, And for so slight a cause, to read a letter! Did this letter, love, contain my death, Should you deny my sight of it, I would not Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, But willingly yield me a patient Unto the doom that your displeasure gave. Here is the letter; not for that your incensement [Gives back the letter.] Makes me make offer of it, but your health, Which anger, I do fear, hath craz'd[296], And viper-like hath suck'd away the blood That wont was to be cheerful in this cheek: How pale ye look!

MR GOUR. Pale! Can ye blame me for it? I tell you true, An easy matter could not thus have moved me. Well, this resignment—and so forth—but, woman, This fortnight shall I not forget ye for it.— Ha, ha, I see that roughness can do somewhat! I did not think, good faith, I could have set So sour a face upon it, and to her, My bed-embracer, my right bosom friend. I would not that she should have seen the letter— As poor a man as I am—by my troth, For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it. [Aside.] Ha, here's ado about a thing of nothing! What, stomach, ha! 'tis happy you're come down. [Exit.

MRS GOUR. Well, crafty[297] fox, I'll hunt ye, by my troth, Deal ye so closely! Well, I see his drift: He would not let me see the letter, lest That I should cross the match; and I will cross it. Dick Coomes!

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. Forsooth.

MRS GOUR. Come hither, Dick; thou art a man I love, And one whom I have much in my regard.

COOMES. I thank ye for it, mistress, I thank ye for it.

MRS GOUR. Nay, here's my hand, I will do very much For thee, if e'er thou stand'st in need of me; Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, Money, apparel—

COOMES. And sword and bucklers?

MRS GOUR. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, So thou wilt use but this in my defence. [Pointing to his sword.]

COOMES. This! no, faith, I have no mind to this; break my head, if this break not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mistress, I had a sword, ay, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right fox,[298] i'faith; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth and a sharp stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled my point, trac'd my ground, and had carried my buckler before me like a garden-butt, and then come in with a cross blow, and over the pick[299] of his buckler two ells long, it would have cried twang, twang, metal, metal: but a dog hath his day; 'tis gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords, that[300] dearth of sword-and-buckler fight begins to grow out:[301] I am sorry for it; I shall never see good manhood again, if it be once gone; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up then; then a man, a tall[302] man, and a good sword-and-buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a coney; then a boy will be as good as a man, unless the Lord show mercy unto us; well, I had as lief be hang'd as live to see that day. Well, mistress, what shall I do? what shall I do?

MRS GOUR. Why, this, brave Dick. Thou knowest that Barnes's wife And I am foes: now, man me to her house; And though it be dark, Dick, yet we'll have no light. Lest that thy master should prevent our journey By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, And if that she and I do fall to words, Set in thy foot and quarrel with her men, Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, And make as though thou strookest[303] at a man, And hit her, and thou canst,—a plague upon her!— She hath misus'd me, Dick: wilt thou do this?

COOMES. Yes, mistress, I will strike her men; but God forbid that e'er Dick Coomes should be seen to strike a woman!

MRS GOUR. Why, she is mankind;[304] therefore thou mayest strike her.

COOMES. Mankind! nay, and she have any part of a man, I'll strike her, I warrant.

MRS GOUR. That's my good Dick, that's my sweet Dick!

COOMES. 'Swouns, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me than twenty of these russet-coats, cheese-cakes, and butter-makers. Well, I thank God, I am none of these cowards; well, and a man have any virtue in him, I see he shall be regarded. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. Art thou resolved, Dick? wilt thou do this for me? And if thou wilt, here is an earnest-penny Of that rich guerdon I do mean to give thee. [Gives money.]

COOMES. An angel,[305] mistress! let me see. Stand you on my left hand, and let the angel lie on my buckler on my right hand, for fear of losing. Now, here stand I to be tempted. They say, every man hath two spirits attending on him, either good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but either his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of them? Why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that gold that is heavy hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and heavy things soonest go down: but leave these considerations to Sir John;[306] they become a black-coat better than a blue.[307] Well, mistress, I had no mind to-day to quarrel; but a woman is made to be a man's seducer; you say, quarrel?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. There speaks an angel: is it good?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. Then, I cannot do amiss; the good angel goes with me.

[_Exeunt.

Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH, _his_ LADY, WILL, [_and_ ATTENDANTS].

SIR RALPH. Come on, my hearts: i'faith, it is ill-luck, To hunt all day, and not kill anything. What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

LADY. I must not say so, sir.

SIR RALPH. Although thou art!

WILL. And can you blame her, to be forth so long, And see no better sport?

SIR RALPH. Good faith, 'twas very hard.

LADY. No, 'twas not ill, Because, you know, it is not good to kill.

SIR RALPH. Yes, venison, lady.

LADY. No, indeed, nor them; Life is as dear in deer as 'tis in men.

SIR RALPH. But they are kill'd for sport.

LADY. But that's bad play, When they are made to sport their lives away.

SIR RALPH. 'Tis fine to see them run.

LADY. What, out of breath? They run but ill that run themselves to death.

SIR RALPH. They might make, then, less haste, and keep their wind.

LADY. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behind.

SIR RALPH. Then, 'twere as good for them at first to stay, As to run long, and run their lives away.

LADY. Ay, but the stoutest of you all that's here Would run from death and nimbly scud for fear. Now, by my troth, I pity these poor elves.[308]

SIR RALPH. Well, they have made us but bad sport to-day.

LADY. Yes, 'twas my sport to see them 'scape away.

WILL. I wish that I had been at one buck's fall.

LADY. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all.

WILL. A wood-man,[309] lady, but no tyrant I.

LADY. Yes, tyrant-like thou lov'st to see lives die.

SIR RALPH. Lady, no more: I do not like this luck, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I swear I will Stay here all night, but I a buck will kill.

LADY. All night! nay, good Sir Ralph Smith, do not so.

SIR RALPH. Content ye, lady. Will, go fetch my bow: A berry[310] of fair roes I saw to-day Down by the groves, and there I'll take my[311] stand, And shoot at one—God send a lucky hand!

LADY. Will ye not, then, Sir Ralph, go home with me?

SIR RALPH. No, but my men shall bear thee company.— Sirs, man her home. Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to-night.— Lady, farewell. Will, haste ye with the bow; I'll stay for thee here by the grove below.

WILL. I will; but 'twill be dark, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?

SIR RALPH. Why, halloo to me, and I will answer thee.

WILL. Enough, I will.

SIR RALPH. Farewell. [Exit.

LADY. How willingly dost thou consent to go To fetch thy master that same killing bow!

WILL. Guilty of death I willing am in this, Because 'twas our ill-haps to-day to miss: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunter's sorrow. Come, lady, we'll have venison ere to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

Enter PHILIP, FRANK [and BOY].

PHIL. Come, Frank, now are we hard by the[312] house: But how now? Sad?

FRAN. No, to study how to woo thy sister.

PHIL. How, man? how to woo her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not he ashamed to woo. Thy cheeks not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratory can unfold [A] quick invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, As it shall ravish every maiden sense; For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, And being full stuff'd up with fallow wit And meadow-matter, ask'd the pretty maid How they sold corn last market-day with them, Saying, "Indeed, 'twas very dear with [us]." And, do ye hear, ye[313] had not need be so, For she[314] will, Francis, throughly[315] try your wit; Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current; Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels,[316] And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye. I cannot speak it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is!

FRAN. Some aqua-vitae reason to recover This sick discourser! Sound[317] not, prythee, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not think her as thou sayest: Perhaps she's[318] opinion's darling, Philip, Wise in repute, the crow's bird. O my friend, Some judgments slave themselves to small desert, And wondernise the birth of common wit, When their own[319] strangeness do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration wins her wit.

PHIL. Well, I am glad to hear this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Frank! Yonder's the window with the candle in't; Belike she's putting on her night attire: I told ye, Frank, 'twas late. Well, I will call her, Marry, softly, that my mother may not hear. Mall, sister Mall!

Enter MALL in the window.

MAL. How now, who's there?

PHIL. 'Tis I.

MAL. 'Tis I! Who I? I, quoth the dog, or what? A Christcross row I?[320]

PHIL. No, sweet pinkany.[321]

MAL. O, is't you, wild-oats?

PHIL. Ay, forsooth, wanton.

MAL. Well said, scapethrift.

FRAN. Philip, be these your usual best salutes? [Aside.]

PHIL. Is this the harmless chiding of that dove? [Aside.]

FRAN. Dove! One of those that draw the queen of love? [Aside.]

MAL. How now? who's that, brother? who's that with ye?

PHIL. A gentleman, my friend.

MAL. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit.

FRAN. How meane your holy judgment?

MAL. O, well put-in, sir!

FRAN. Up, you would say.

MAL. Well climb'd, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love?

FRAN. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lie.

MAL. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book, To place a four[322]-wheel waggon in my look: Where will you have room to have the coachman sit?

FRAN. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His duty is before you bare to stand, Having a lusty whipstock[323] in his hand.

MAL. The place is void; will you provide me one?

FRAN. And if you please, I will supply the room.

MAL. But are ye cunning in the carman's lash? And can ye whistle well?

FRAN. Yes, I can well direct the coach of love.

MAL. Ah, cruel carter! would you whip a dove?

PHIL. Hark ye, sister—

MAL. Nay, but hark ye, brother; Whose white boy[324] is that same? know ye his mother?

PHIL. He is a gentleman of a good house.

MAL. Why, is his house of gold? Is it not made of lime and stone like this?

PHIL. I mean he's well-descended.

MAL. God be thanked! Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?

PHIL. Well, you will still be cross; I tell ye, sister— This gentleman, by all your friends' consent Must be your husband.

MAL. Nay, not all, some sing another note; My mother will say no, I hold a groat. But I thought 'twas somewhat, he would be a carter; He hath been whipping lately some blind bear, And now he would ferk the blind boy here with us.

PHIL. Well, do you hear, you, sister, mistress [that] would have— You that do long for somewhat, I know what— My father told me—go to, I'll tell all, If ye be cross—do you hear me? I have labour'd A year's work in this afternoon for ye: Come from your cloister, votary, chaste nun, Come down and kiss Frank Goursey's mother's son.

MAL. Kiss him, I pray?

PHIL. Go to, stale maidenhead! come down, I say, You seventeen and upward, come, come down; You'll stay till twenty else for your wedding gown.

MAL. Nun, votary, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward! Here be names! what, nothing else?

FRAN. Yes, or a fair-built steeple without bells.

MAL. Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.

FRAN. Ay, or a well-made ship without a mast.

MAL. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of four.

FRAN. Why, then, ye are a boat without an oar.

MAL. O well row'd wit! but what's your fare, I pray?

FRAN. Your fair self must be my fairest pay.

MAL. Nay, and you be so dear, I'll choose another.

FRAN. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further. [Aside.]

PHIL. Peace, Francis. Hark ye, sister, this I say: You know my mind; or answer ay or nay. [Your] wit and judgment hath resolv'd his mind, And he foresees what after he shall find: If such discretion, then, shall govern you, Vow love to him, he'll do the like to you.

MAL. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature, Nor high nor low, but of the middle stature? A middle man, that's the best size indeed; I like him well: love grant us well to speed!

FRAN. And let me see a woman of that tallness, So slender and of such a middle smallness, So old enough, and in each part so fit, So fair, so kind, endued with so much wit, Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, 'Twere pity to keep love and her asunder; Therefore go up, my joy, call down my bliss; Bid her come seal the bargain with a kiss.

MAL. Frank, Frank, I come through dangers, death, and harms, To make love's patent[325] with my[326] seal of arms.

PHIL. But, sister, softly, lest my mother hear.

MAL. Hush, then; mum, mouse in cheese[327], cat is near. [Exit MAL.

FRAN. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, That I have wooed and won in so small while.

PHIL. Francis, indeed my sister, I dare say. Was not determined to say thee nay; For this same tother thing, call'd maiden-head, Hangs by so small a hair or spider's thread, And worn so too[328] with time, it must needs fall, And, like a well-lur'd hawk, she knows her call.

[Enter MALL.]

MAL. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread, And ask'd, Who's there? I would not answer her; She call'd, A light! and up she's gone to seek me: There when she finds me not, she'll hither come; Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. Francis, my love's lease I do let to thee, Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me? The ent'ring, fine, or income thou must pay, Are kisses and embraces every day; And quarterly I must receive my rent; You know my mind.

FRAN. I guess at thy intent: Thou shalt not miss a minute of thy time.

MAL. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am only thine.— Brother, bear witness.

PHIL. Do ye deliver this as your deed?

MAL. I do, I do.

PHIL. God send ye both good speed! God's Lord, my mother! Stand aside, And closely too, lest that you be espied.

[Enter MISTRESS BARNES.]

MRS BAR. Who's there?

PHIL. Mother, 'tis I.

MRS BAR. You disobedient ruffian, careless wretch, That said your father lov'd me but too well? I'll think on't, when thou think'st I have forgot it: Who's with thee else?—How now, minion? you! With whom? with him!—Why, what make you here, sir,

[Discovers FRANCIS and MALL.]

And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye To cut my throat, that here you be in wait?— Come from him, mistress, and let go his hand.— Will ye not, sir?

FRAN. Stay, Mistress Barnes, or mother—what ye will; She is[329] my wife, and here she shall be still.

MRS BAR. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have? I'll rather have her married to her grave.[330] Go to; be gone, and quickly, or I swear I'll have my men beat ye for staying here.

PHIL. Beat him, mother! as I am true[331] man, They were better beat the devil and his dam.

MRS BAR. What, wilt thou take his part?

PHIL. To do him good, And 'twere to wade hitherto up in blood.

FRAN. God-a-mercy, Philip!—But, mother, hear me.

MRS BAR. Call'st thou me mother? no, thy mother's name Carries about with it reproach and shame. Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed A strumpet's son, and have her so misled, I'll marry her to a carter; come, I say, Give me her from thee.

FRAN. Mother, not to-day, Nor yet to-morrow, till my life's last morrow Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow: Here I have borrowed love, I'll not denay[332] it.— Thy wedding night's my day, then I'll repay it.— Till then she'll trust me. Wench, is't[333] not so? And if it be, say ay, if not, say no.

MAL. Mother, good mother, hear me! O good God, Now we are even, what, would you make us odd? Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, To give me leave once to do what I list. I am as you were, when you were a maid; Guess by yourself how long you would have stay'd, Might you have had your will: as good begin At first as last, it saves us from much sin; Lying alone, we muse on things and things, And in our minds one thought another brings: This maid's life, mother, is an idle life, Therefore I'll be, ay, I will be a wife; And, mother, do not mistrust[334] my age or power, I am sufficient, I lack ne'er an hour; I had both wit to grant, when he did woo me, And strength to bear whate'er he can do to me.

MRS BAR. Well, bold-face, but I mean to make ye stay. Go to, come from him, or I'll make ye come: Will ye not come?

PHIL. Mother, I pray, forbear; This match is for my sister.

MRS BAR. Villain, 'tis not; Nor she shall not be so match'd now.[335]

PHIL. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate Shall not rule us; we'll end all this debate By this begun device.

MRS BAR. Ay, end what you begun! Villains, thieves, Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?— Help, help! they'll rob me here, they'll rob me here!

Enter MASTER BARNES and his men.

MR BAR. How now? what outcry's here? why, how now, woman?

MRS BAR. Why, Goursey's son, confederate[336] with this boy, This wretch unnatural and undutiful, Seeks hence to steal my daughter: will you suffer it? Shall he, that's son to my arch-enemy, Enjoy her? Have I brought her up to this? O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not!

MR BAR. I am sorry she knows it. [Aside.]—Hark ye, wife, Let reason moderate your rage a little. If you examine but his birth and living, His wit and good behaviour, you will say, Though that ill-hate make your opinion bad, He doth deserve as good a wife as she.

MRS BAR. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her?

MR BAR. Ay, so that thy mind would agree with mine?

MRS BAR. My mind shall ne'er agree to this agreement.

Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY and COOMES.[337]

MR BAR. And yet it shall go forward:—but who's here? What, Mistress Goursey! how knew she of this?

PHIL. Frank, thy mother!

FRAN. 'Sowns, where? a plague upon it! I think the devil is set to cross this match.

MRS GOUR. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonder's [th'] light: Let us go near. How now? methinks I see My son stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter. Why, how now, sirrah? is this time of night For you to be abroad? what have we here? I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.

FRAN. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me, And I love her; then we must needs agree.

MRS BAR. Ay, but I'll keep her sure enough from thee.

MRS GOUR. It shall not need, I'll keep him safe enough; Be sure he shall not graft in such a stock.

MRS BAR. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine: I do not mean that he shall graft in mine.

MRS GOUR. Nor shall he, mistress. Hark, boy; th'art but mad To love the branch that hath a root so bad.

FRAN. Then, mother, I will graft a pippin on a crab.

MRS GOUR. It will not prove well.

FRAN. But I will prove my skill.

MRS BAR. Sir, but you shall not.

FRAN. Mothers both, I will.

MR BAR. Hark, Philip: send away thy sister straight; Let Francis meet her where thou shalt appoint; Let them go several to shun suspicion, And bid them go to Oxford both this night; There to-morrow say that we will meet them, And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.]

PHIL. I will: though it be very late and dark. My sister will endure it for a husband. [Aside.]

MR BAR. Well, then, at Carfax,[338] boy, I mean to meet them. [Aside.]

PHIL. Enough. Exit [MASTER BARNES.] Would they would begin to chide! For I would have them brawling, that meanwhile They may steal hence, to meet where I appoint it. [Aside.] What, mother, will you let this match go forward? Or, Mistress Goursey, will you first agree?

MRS GOUR. Shall I agree first?

PHIL. Ay, why not? come, come.

MRS GOUR. Come from her, son, and if thou lov'st thy mother.

MRS BAR. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee.

MRS GOUR. Francis, by fair means let me win thee from her, And I will gild my blessing, gentle son, With store of angels. I would not have thee Check thy good fortune by this cos'ning choice: O, do not thrall thy happy liberty In such a bondage! if thou'lt needs be bound, Be then to better worth; this worthless choice Is not fit for thee.

MRS BAR. Is't not fit for him? wherefore is't not fit? Is he too brave[339] a gentleman, I pray? No, 'tis not fit; she shall not fit his turn: If she were wise, she would be fitter for Three times his better. Minion, go in, or I'll make ye; I'll keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye.

MRS GOUR. Come, Francis, come from her.

FRAN. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, That like an ill-companion would infect The infant mind of our affection: Within this cradle shall this minute's babe Be laid to rest; and thus I'll hug my joy.

MRS GOUR. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou self-will'd boy? Nay, then, perforce I'll part ye, since ye will not.

COOMES. Do ye hear, mistress? pray ye give me leave to talk two or three cold words with my young master.—Hark ye, sir, ye are my master's son, and so forth; and indeed I bear ye some good-will, partly for his sake, and partly for your own; and I do hope you do the like to me,—I should be sorry else. I must needs say ye are a young man; and for mine own part, I have seen the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the experience that I have, I thank God I have travelled for it.

FRAN. Why, how far have ye travell'd for it?

BOY. From my master's house to the ale-house.

COOMES. How, sir?

BOY. So, sir.

COOMES. Go to. I pray, correct your boy; 'twas ne'er a good world, since a boy would face a man so.

FRAN. Go to. Forward, man.

COOMES. Well, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistress' consent.

FRAN. And why?

COOMES. Nay, there's ne'er a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have danc'd a galliard at beggars'-bush[340] for it.

BOY. At beggars'-bush! Hear him no more, master; he doth bedaub ye with his dirty speech. Do ye hear, sir? how far stands beggars'-bush from your father's house, sir? Why, thou whoreson refuge[341] of a tailor, that wert 'prentice to a tailor half an age, and because, if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst prove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop-board to a blue coat, doth it become thee to use thy terms so? well, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sew up your lubber lips, or 'tis not your sword and buckler shall keep my poniard from your breast.

COOMES. Do ye hear, sir? this is your boy.

FRAN. How then?

COOMES. You must breech him for it.

FRAN. Must I? how, if I will not?

COOMES. Why, then, 'tis a fine world, when boys keep boys, and know not how to use them.

FRAN. Boy, ye rascal!

MRS GOUR. Strike him, and thou darest.

COOMES. Strike me? alas, he were better strike his father! Sowns, go to, put up your bodkin.[342]

FRAN. Mother, stand by; I'll teach that rascal—

COOMES. Go to, give me good words, or, by God's dines,[343] I'll buckle ye for all your bird-spit.

FRAN. Will you so, sir?

PHIL. Stay, Frank, this pitch of frenzy will defile thee; Meddle not with it: thy unreproved valour Should be high-minded; couch it not so low. Dost hear me? take occasion to slip hence, But secretly, let not thy mother see thee: At the back-side there is a coney-green;[344] Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]

FRAN. Enough, I will [Aside.] Mother, you do me wrong To be so peremptory in your command, And see that rascal to abuse me so.

COOMES. Rascal! take that and take all! Do ye hear, sir? I do not mean to pocket up this wrong.

Boy. I know why that is.

COOMES. Why?

Boy. Because you have ne'er a pocket.

COM. A whip, sirrah, a whip! But, sir, provide your tools against to-morrow morning; 'tis somewhat dark now, indeed: you know Dawson's close, between the hedge and the pond; 'tis good even ground; I'll meet you there; and I do not, call me cut;[345] and you be a man, show yourself a man; we'll have a bout or two; and so we'll part for that present.

FRAN. Well, sir, well.

NICH. Boy, have they appointed to fight?

BOY. Ay, Nicholas; wilt not thou go see the fray?

NICH. No, indeed; even as they brew, so let them bake. I will not thrust my hand into the flame, and [I] need not; 'tis not good to have an oar in another man's boat; little said is soon amended, and in little meddling cometh great rest; 'tis good sleeping in a whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping-Cross:[346] no, by lady, a friend is not so soon gotten as lost; blessed are the peace-makers; they that strike with the sword, shall be beaten with the scabbard.

PHIL. Well-said, Proverbs: ne'er another to that purpose?

NICH. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.[347]

PHIL. Why to me, take heed?

NICH. For happy is he whom other men's harms do make to beware.

PHIL. O, beware, Frank! Slip away, Mall, you know what I told ye. I'll hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [Aside.] Mother and Mistress Barnes, methinks you should not stand in hatred so hard one with another.

MRS BAR. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot, That robs me of my right, vild[348] boy?

MRS GOUR. That title I return unto thy teeth, [Exeunt FRANCIS and MALL. And spit the name of harlot in thy face.

MRS BAR. Well, 'tis not time of night to hold out chat With such a scold as thou art; therefore now Think that I hate thee, as I do the devil.

MRS GOUR. The devil take thee, if thou dost not, wretch!

MRS BAR. Out upon thee, strumpet!

MRS GOUR. Out upon thee, harlot!

MRS BAR. Well, I will find a time to be reveng'd: Meantime I'll keep my daughter from thy son.— Where are ye, minion? how now, are ye gone?

PHIL. She went in, mother.

MRS GOUR. Francis, where are ye?

MRS BAR. He is not here. O, then, they slipp'd away, And both together!

PHIL. I'll assure ye, no: My sister she went in—into the house.

MRS BAR. But then she'll out again at the back door, And meet with him: but I will search about All these same fields and paths near to my house: They are not far, I am sure, if I make haste. [Exit.

MRS GOUR. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him? It was when Barnes's wife did scold with me; A plague on[349] her!—Dick, why didst not thou look to him?

COOMES. What should I look for him? no, no. I look not for him while[350] to-morrow morning.

MRS GOUR. Come, go with me to help me look him out. Alas! I have nor light, nor link, nor torch! Though it be dark, I will take any pains To cross this match. I prithee, Dick, away.

COOMES. Mistress, because I brought ye out, I'll bring ye home; but, if I should follow, so he might have the law on his side.

MRS GOUR. Come, 'tis no matter; prythee, go with me.

Exeunt [MRS GOURSEY and COOMES.]

MR BAR. Philip, thy mother's gone to seek thy sister, And in a rage, i'faith: but who comes here?

PHIL. Old Master Goursey, as I think, 'tis he.

MR BAR. 'Tis so, indeed.

[Enter MASTER GOURSEY.]

MR GOUR. Who's there?

MR BAR. A friend of yours.

MR GOUR. What, Master Barnes! did ye not see my wife?

MR BAR. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was here even now.

MR GOUR. I doubted that; that made me come unto you: But whither is she gone?

PHIL. To seek your son, who slipp'd away from her To meet with Mall my sister in a place, Where I appointed; and my mother too Seeks for my sister; so they both are gone: My mother hath a torch; marry, your wife Goes darkling up and down, and Coomes before her.

MR GOUR. I thought that knave was with her; but 'tis well: I pray God, they may come by ne'er a light, But both be led a dark dance in the night!

HOD. Why, is my fellow, Dick, in the dark with my mistress? I pray God, they be honest, for there may be much knavery in the dark: faith, if I were there, I would have some knavery with them. [Aside] Good master, will ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to play at blind-man-buff with my mistress.

PHIL. On that condition thou wilt do thy best To keep thy mistress and thy fellow, Dick, Both from my sister and thy master's son, I will entreat thy master let thee go.

HOD. O, ay, I warrant ye, I'll have fine tricks to cosen them.

MR GOUR. Well, sir, then, go your ways; I give you leave.

HOD. O brave! but whereabout are they?

PHIL. About our coney-green they surely are, If thou canst find them.

HOD. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies. [Exit.

PHIL. Well, now will I to Frank and to my sister. Stand you two heark'ning near the coney-green; But sure your light in you must not be seen; Or else let Nicholas stand afar off with it, And as his life keep it from Mistress Goursey. Shall this be done?

MR BAR. Philip, it shall.

PHIL. God be with ye! I'll be gone. [Exit.

MR BAR. Come on, Master Goursey: this same is a means To make our wives friends, if they resist not.

MR GOUR. Tut, sir, howsoever, it shall go forward.

MR BAR. Come, then, let's do as Philip hath advis'd.

[Exeunt.

Enter MALL.

MAL. Here is the place where Philip bad me stay, Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother Appoint it here? why in the coney-burrow? He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye. Well, here I'll set me down under this tree, And think upon the matter all alone. Good Lord, what pretty things these conies are! How finely they do feed till they be fat, And then what a sweet meat a coney is! And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray! They say they run more in the night than day: What is the reason? mark; why in the light They see more passengers than in the night; For harmful men many a hay[351] do set, And laugh to see them tumble in the net; And they put ferrets in the holes—fie, fie!— And they go up and down where conies lie; And they lie still, they have so little wit: I marvel the warrener will suffer it; Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves Do give consent to catch these pretty elves. How if the warrener should spy me here? He would take me for a coney, I dare swear. But when that Francis comes, what will he say? "Look, boy, there lies a coney in my way!" But, soft, a light! who's that? soul, my mother! Nay, then, all-hid[352]: i'faith, she shall not see me; I'll play bo-peep with her behind this tree.

[Enter MISTRESS BARNES.]

MRS BAR. I marvel where this wench doth[353] hide herself So closely; I have search'd in many a bush.

MAL. Belike my mother took me for a thrush. [Aside.]

MRS BAR. She's hid in this same warren, I'll lay money.

MAL. Close as a rabbit-sucker[354] from an old coney. [Aside.]

MRS BAR. O God, I would to God that I could find her! I would keep her from her love's toys yet.

MAL. Ay, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. [Aside.]

MRS BAR. What a vild[355] girl 'tis, that would hav't so young!

MAL. A murrain take that dissembling tongue! Ere your calf's teeth were out, you thought it long. [Aside.]

MRS BAR. But, minion, yet I'll keep you from the man.

MAL. To save a lie, mother, say, if you can. [Aside.]

MRS BAR. Well, now to look for her.

MAL. Ay, there's the spite: What trick shall I now have to 'scape her light? [Aside.]

MRS BAR. Who's there? what, minion, is it you?— Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to! But I am glad I found her, though I was afraid. [Aside.] Come on your ways; you are[356] a handsome maid! Why [steal] you forth a-doors so late at night? Why, whither go ye? come, stand still, I say.

MAL. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way.

MRS BAR. 'Tis not the best way; stand by me, I tell ye.

MAL. No; you would catch me, mother. O, I smell ye!

MRS BAR. Will ye not stand still?

MAL. No, by lady, no.

MRS BAR. But I will make ye.

MAL. Nay, then, trip-and-go.

MRS BAR. Mistress, I'll make ye weary, ere I have done.

MAL. Faith, mother, then, I'll try, how you can run.

MRS BAR. Will ye?

MAL. Yes, faith. [Exeunt.

Enter [FRANK and BOY.]

FRAN. Mall, sweet-heart, Mall! what, not a word?

BOY. A little farther, master; call again.

FRAN. Why, Mall! I prythee, speak; why, Mall, I say! I know thou art not far, if thou wilt[357] speak; Why, Mall!— But now I see she's in her merry vein, To make me call, and put me to more pain. Well, I must bear with her; she'll bear with me: But I will call, lest that it be not so.— What, Mall! what, Mall, I say! Boy, are we right? Have we not miss'd the way this same dark night?

BOY. Mass, it may be so: as I am true[358] man, I have not seen a coney since I came; Yet at the coney-burrow we should meet. But, hark! I hear the trampling of some feet.

FRAN. It may be so, then; therefore, let's lie close.

[Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY and COOMES.]

MRS GOUR. Where art thou, Dick?

COOMES. Where am I, quoth-a! marry, I may be where anybody will say I am; either in France or at Rome, or at Jerusalem, they may say I am, for I am not able to disprove them, because I cannot tell where I am.

MRS GOUR. O, what a blindfold walk have we had, Dick, To seek my son! and yet I cannot find him.

COOMES. Why, then, mistress, let's go home.

MRS GOUR. Why, 'tis so dark we shall not find the way.

FRAN. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day! [Aside.

COOMES. 'Sblood, take heed, mistress, here's a tree.

MRS GOUR. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by thee.

BOY. Dick Coomes, what difference is there between a blind man and he that cannot see?

FRAN. Peace, a pox on thee!

COOMES. Swounds, somebody spake.

MRS GOUR. Dick, look about; It may be here we may find them out.

COOMES. I see the glimpse[359] of somebody here.— And ye be a sprite, I'll fray the bugbear.— There a-goes, mistress.

MRS GOUR. O, sir, have I spied you?

FRAN. A plague on the boy! 'was he that descried[360] me.

[Exeunt.

[Enter PHILIP.]

PHIL. How like a beautous lady mask'd in black Looks that same large circumference of heaven! The sky, that was so fair three hours ago, Is in three hours become an Ethiop; And being angry at her beauteous change, She will not have one of those pearled stars To blab her sable metamorphosis:[361] 'Tis very dark. I did appoint my sister To meet me at the coney-borough below, And Francis too; but neither can I see. Belike my mother happ'ned on that place, And fray'd them from it, and they both are now Wand'ring about the[362] fields: how shall I find them? It is so dark, I scarce can see my hand: Why, then, I'll hollow for them—no, not so; So will his voice betray him to our mothers, And if he answer, and bring them where he is. What shall I then do? it must not be so— 'Sblood,[363] it must be so; how else, I pray? Shall I stand gaping here all night till day, And then be ne'er the near?[364] So ho, so ho!

[Enter WILL.]

WILL. So ho! I come: where are ye? where art thou? here!

PHIL. How now, Frank, where hast thou[365] been?

WILL. Frank! what Frank? 'sblood, is Sir Ralph mad? [Aside.] Here's the bow.

PHIL. I have not been much private with that voice: Methinks Frank Goursey's talk and his doth tell me I am mistaken; especially by his bow; Frank had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow, And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. [Aside.] —Dost thou hear, fellow? I perceive by thee That we are both mistaken: I took thee For one thou art not; likewise thou took'st me For Sir Ralph Smith, but sure I am not he: And so, farewell; I must go seek my friend. So ho! [Exit.

WILL. So ho, so ho! nay, then, Sir Ralph, so whore! For a whore she was sure, if you had her here So late. Now, you are Sir Ralph Smith![366] Well do ye counterfeit and change your voice, But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis? Belike that Francis cosen'd him of his wench, And he conceals himself to find her out; 'Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go, And help him ring his peal of so ho, so ho! [Exit.

Enter FRANK.

FRAN. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy! A plague, too—not on my mother for an hundreth pound! 'Twas time to run; and yet I had not thought My mother could have followed me so close, Her legs with age I thought had foundered; She made me quite run through a quickset hedge, Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, I have run through the briars for a wench; And yet I have her not—the worse luck mine. Methought I heard one hollow hereabout; I judge it Philip; O, the slave will laugh, When as he hears how that my mother scar'd me! Well, here I'll stand until I hear him hollow, And then I'll answer him; he is not far.

[Enter SIR RALPH SMITH.]

SIR RALPH. My man is hollowing for me up and down, And yet I cannot meet with him. So ho!

FRAN. So ho!

SIR RALPH. Why, what a pox, wert thou so near me, man, And wouldst not speak?

FRAN. 'Sblood, ye're very hot.

SIR RALPH. No, sir, I am cold enough with staying here For such a knave as you.

FRAN. Knave! how now, Philip? Art mad, art mad?

SIR RALPH. Why, art not thou my man, That went to fetch my bow?[367]

FRAN. Indeed, a bow Might shoot me ten bows down the weather so: I your man!

SIR RALPH. What art thou, then?

FRAN. A man: but what's thy name?

SIR RALPH. Some call me Ralph.

FRAN. Then, honest Ralph, farewell.

SIR RALPH. Well-said, familiar Will! plain Ralph, i'faith.

[Hollow within PHILIP and WILL.][368]

FRAN. There calls my man.

SIR RALPH. But there goes mine away; And yet I'll hear what this next call will say, And here I'll tarry, till he call again. [Retires.][369]

[Enter WILL.]

WILL. So ho!

FRAN. So ho! where art thou, Philip?

WILL. 'Sblood,[370] Philip! But now he call'd me Francis: this is fine. [Aside.]

FRAN. Why studiest thou? I prythee, tell me, Philip, Where the wench[371] is.

WILL. Even now he ask'd me (Francis) for the wench, And now he asks[372] me (Philip) for the wench. [Aside.] Well, Sir Ralph, I must needs tell ye now, 'Tis[373] not for your[374] credit to be forth So late a-wenching in this order.[375]

FRAN. What's this? so late a-wenching, doth he say? [Aside] —Indeed, 'tis true I am thus late a-wenching, But I am forc'd to wench without a wench.

WILL. Why, then, you might have ta'n your bow at first, And gone and kill'd a buck, and not have been So long a-drabbing, and be ne'er the near.[376]

FRAN. Swounds, what a puzzle am I in this night! But yet I'll put this fellow farther [question. Aside] —Dost thou hear, man? I am not Sir Ralph Smith, As thou dost think I am; but I did meet him, Even as thou sayest, in pursuit of a wench. I met the wench too, and she ask'd for thee, Saying 'twas thou that wert her love, her dear, And that Sir Ralph was not an honest knight To train her thither, and to use her so.

WILL. 'Sblood, my wench! swounds, were he ten Sir Ralphs—

FRAN. Nay, 'tis true, look to it; and so, farewell. [Exit.

WILL. Indeed, I do love Nan our dairymaid: And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent, Or for another? I carry his crossbow, And he doth cross me, shooting in my bow. What shall I do? [Exit.][377]

Enter PHILIP.

PHIL. So ho!

SIR RALPH. So ho!

PHIL. Francis, art thou there?

SIR RALPH. No, here's no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?

PHIL. Will Fool your man, Will goose[378] your man! My back, sir, scorns to wear your livery.

SIR RALPH. Nay, sir, I mov'd but such a question to you, And it hath not disparag'd you, I hope; 'Twas but mistaking; such a night as this May well deceive a man. God be w'ye,[379] sir. [Exit.]

PHIL. God's will, 'tis Sir Ralph Smith, a virtuous knight! How gently entertains he my hard answer! Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly: I cry him mercy. Well, but all this while I cannot find a Francis.—Francis, ho!

[Enter WILL.]

WILL. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now! How have ye us'd my Nan? come, tell me, how.

PHIL. Thy Nan! what Nan?

WILL. Ay, what Nan, now! say, do you not seek a wench?

PHIL. Yes, I do.

WILL. Then, sir, that is she.

PHIL. Art not thou [he] I met withal before?

WILL. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before, And said to me you were not Sir Ralph Smith.

PHIL. No more I am not. I met Sir Ralph Smith; Even now he ask'd me, if I saw his man.

WILL. O, fine!

PHIL. Why, sirrah, thou art much deceived in me: Good faith, I am not he thou think'st I am.

WILL. What are ye, then?

PHIL. Why, one that seeks one Francis and a wench.

WILL. And Francis seeks one Philip and a wench.

PHIL. How canst thou tell?

WILL. I met him seeking Philip and a wench. As I was seeking Sir Ralph and a wench.

PHIL. Why, then, I know the matter: we met cross, And so we miss'd; now here we find our loss. Well, if thou wilt, we two will keep together, And so we shall meet right with one or other.

WILL. I am content: but, do you hear me, sir? Did not Sir Ralph Smith ask ye for a wench?

PHIL. No, I promise thee, nor did he look For any but thyself, as I could guess.

WILL. Why, this is strange: but come, sir, let's away: I fear that we shall walk here, till't be day.

[Exeunt.

Enter BOY.

[BOY.] O God, I have run so far into the wind, that I have run myself out of wind! They say a man is near his end, when he lacks breath; and I am at the end of my race, for I can run no farther; then here I be in my breath-bed, not in my death-bed.[380]

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. They say men moil and toil for a poor living; so I moil and toil, and am living, I thank God; in good time be it spoken. It had been better for me my mistress's angel had been light, for then perhaps it had not led me into this darkness. Well, the devil never blesses a man better, when he purses up angels by owl-light. I ran through a hedge to take the boy, but I stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [Falls.] 'Swounds, a plague on that clod, that molehill, that ditch, or what the devil so e'er it were, for a man cannot see what it was! Well, I would not, for the price of my sword and buckler, anybody should see me in this taking, for it would make me but cut off their legs for laughing at me. Well, down I am, and down I mean to be, because I am weary; but to tumble down thus, it was no part of my meaning: then, since I am down, here I'll rest me, and no man shall remove me.

Enter HODGE.

HOD. O, I have sport in coney, i'faith! I have almost burst myself with laughing at Mistress Barnes. She was following of her daughter; and I, hearing her, put on my fellow Dick's sword-and-buckler voice and his swounds and sblood words, and led her such a dance in the dark as it passes.[381] "Here she is," quoth I. "Where?" quoth she. "Here," quoth I. O, it hath been a brave here-and-there night! but, O, what a soft-natured thing the dirt is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kiss my feet for acquaintance! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods[382] to make me stumble only of purpose to entreat me lie down and rest me! But now, and I could find my fellow Dick, I would play the knave with him honestly, i'faith. Well, I will grope in the dark for him, or I'll poke with my staff, like a blind man, to prevent a ditch. [He stumbles[383] on DICK COOMES.

COOMES. Who's that, with a pox?

HOD. Who art thou, with a pestilence?

COOMES. Why, I am Dick Coomes.

HOD. What, have I found thee. Dick? nay, then, I am for ye, Dick, [Aside.] —Where are ye, Dick?

COOMES. What can I tell, where I am?

HOD. Can ye not tell? come, come, ye wait on your mistress well! come on your ways; I have sought you, till I am weary, and call'd ye, till I am hoarse: good Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, heigho!

COOMES. Is't you, mistress, that came over me? 'Sblood, 'twere a good deed to come over you for this night's work. I cannot afford all this pains for an angel: I tell ye true; a kiss were not cast away upon a good fellow, that hath deserved more that way than a kiss, if your kindness would afford it him: what, shall I have't, mistress?

HOD. Fie, fie, I must not kiss my man.

COOMES. Nay, nay, ne'er stand; shall I, shall I? nobody sees: say but I shall, and I'll smack it[384] soundly, i'faith.

HOD. Away, bawdy man! in truth, I'll tell your master.

COOMES. My master! go to, ne'er tell me of my master: he may pray for them that may, he is past it: and for mine own part, I can do somewhat that way, I thank God; I am not now to learn, and 'tis your part to have your whole desire.

HOD. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you: would you tempt your mistress to lewdness?

COOMES. To lewdness! no, by my troth, there's no such matter in't, it is for kindness; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle offer, you shall have what courteously I can afford ye.

HOD. Shall I indeed, Dick? I'faith, if I thought nobody would see—

COOMES. Tush, fear not that; swoons, they must have cats' eyes, then.

HOD. Then, kiss me, Dick.

COOMES. A kind wench, i'faith! [Aside.]—Where are ye, mistress?

HOD. Here, Dick. O, I am in the dark! Dick, go about.[385]

COOMES. Nay, I'll throw[386] sure: where are ye?

HOD. Here.

COOMES. A plague on this post! I would the carpenter had been hang'd, that set it up, for me.[387] Where are ye now?

HOD. Here.

COOMES. Here! O, I come. [Exit.] A plague on it, I am in a pond, mistress!

HOD. Ha, ha! I have led him into a pond.—Where art thou, Dick?

COOMES. [Within.] Up to the middle in a pond!

HOD. Make a boat of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are ye so hot, with a pox? would you kiss my mistress? cool ye there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he comes forth, the skirts of his blue coat will drop like a pent[388]-house! O, that I could see, and not be seen; how he would spaniel it, and shake himself, when he comes out of the pond! But I'll be gone; for now he'll fight with a fly, if he but buzz[389] in his ear. [Exit.

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. Here's so-ho-ing with a plague! so hang, and ye will; for I have been almost drown'd. A pox of your stones,[390] and ye call this kissing! Ye talk of a drowned rat, but 'twas time to swim like a dog; I had been serv'd like a drown'd cat else. I would he had digg'd his grave that digg'd the pond! my feet were foul indeed, but a less pail than a pond would have served my turn to wash them. A man shall be serv'd thus always, when he follows any of these females: but 'tis my kind heart that makes me thus forward in kindness unto them: well, God amend them, and make them thankful to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunk, I would ye should well know it; and yet I have drunk more than will do me good, for I might have had a pump set up with as[391] good March beer as this was, and ne'er set up an ale-bush for the matter. Well, I am somewhat in wrath, I must needs say; and yet I am not more angry than wise, nor more wise than angry; but I'll fight with the next man I meet, and it be but for luck's sake; and if he love to see himself hurt, let him bring light with him; I'll do it by darkling else, by God's dines. Well, here will I walk, whosoever says nay.

Enter NICHOLAS.

NICH. He that worse may, must hold the candle; but my master is not so wise, as God might have made him. He is gone to seek a hare in a hen's nest, a needle in a bottle of hay, which is as seldom seen as a black swan: he is gone to seek my young mistress; and I think she is better lost than found, for whosoever hath her, hath but a wet eel by the tail. But they may do, as they list; the law is in their own hands; but, and they would be rul'd by me, they should set her on the lee-land, and bid the devil split her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past mine hour; but I'll watch her a good turn for it.

COOMES. How, who's that? Nicholas!—So, first come, first serv'd; I am for him [Aside]. —How now, Proverb, Proverb? 'sblood, how now, Proverb?

NICH. My name is Nicholas, Richard; and I know your meaning, and I hope ye mean no harm. I thank ye: I am the better for your asking.

COOMES. Where have ye been a-whoring thus late, ha?

NICH. Master Richard, the good wife would not seek her daughter in the oven, unless she had been there herself: but, good Lord, you are knuckle-deep in dirt!—I warrant, when he was in, he swore Walsingham[392], and chaf'd terrible for the time. [Aside.] —Look, the water drops from you as fast as hops.

COOMES. What need'st thou to care, whip-her-Jenny[393], tripe-cheeks?[394], out, you fat ass!

NICH. Good words cost nought: ill words corrupt good manners, Richard; for a hasty man never wants woe. And I had thought you had been my friend; but I see all is not gold that glitters; there's falsehood in fellowship; amicus certus in re certa cernitur; time and truth tries all; and 'tis an old proverb, and not so old as true, bought wit is the best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your mind as well as though I were within you; 'tis ill halting before a cripple: go to, you seek to quarrel; but beware of had I wist[395]; so long goes the pot to the water, at length it comes home broken; I know you are as good a man as ever drew sword, or as was e'er girt in a girdle, or as e'er went on neat's leather, or as one shall see upon a summer's day, or as e'er look'd man in the face, or as e'er trod on God's earth, or as e'er broke bread or drunk drink; but he is proper that hath proper conditions[396]; but be not you like the cow, that gives a good sop of milk, and casts it down with her[397] heels; I speak plainly, for plain-dealing is a jewel, and he that useth it shall die a beggar; well, that happens in an hour, that happens not in seven years; a man is not so soon whole as hurt; and you should kill a man, you would kiss his—well, I say little, but I think the more. Yet I'll give him good words; 'tis good to hold a candle before the devil; yet, by God's dine[398], I'll take no wrong, if he had a head as big as Brass[399], or look'd as high as Paul's steeple. [Aside.]

COOMES. Sirrah, thou grasshopper, that shalt skip from my sword as from a scythe; I'll cut thee out in collops and eggs, in steaks, in slic'd beef, and fry thee with the fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler.

NICH. Ay, Brag's a good dog; threat'ned folks live long.

COOMES. What say ye, sir?

NICH. Why, I say not so much as, How do ye?

COOMES. Do ye not so, sir?

NICH. No, indeed, whatsoe'er I think; and thought is free.

COOMES. You whoreson wafer-cake, by God's dines, I'll crush ye for this!

NICH. Give an inch, and you'll take an ell; I will not put my finger in a hole, I warrant ye: what, man! ne'er crow so fast, for a blind man may kill a hare; I have known when a plain fellow hath hurt a fencer, so I have: what! a man may be as slow as a snail, but as fierce as a lion, and he be moved; indeed, I am patient, I must needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to the Three Cranes in the Vintry.

COOMES. Do ye hear? set down your torch; draw, fight, I am for ye.

NICH. And I am for ye too, though it be from this midnight to the next morn.

COOMES. Where be your tools?

NlCH. Within a mile of an oak, sir; he's a proud horse will not carry his own provender, I warrant ye.

COOMES. Now am I in my quarrelling humour, and now can I say nothing but, zounds, draw! but I'll untruss, and then have to it. [Aside.]

Enter [severally] HODGE and BOY.

HOD. Who's there? boy! honest boy, well-met: where hast thou been?

BOY. O Hodge, Dick Coomes hath been as good as a cry of hounds, to make a breath'd[400] hare of me! but didst thou see my master?

HOD. I met him even now, and he ask'd me for thee, and he is gone up and down, whooing like[401] an owl for thee.

BOY. Owl, ye ass!

HOD. Ass! no, nor glass, for then it had been Owlglass[402]: but who's that, boy?

BOY. By the mass, 'tis our Coomes and Nicholas; and it seems they are providing to fight.

HOD. Then we shall have fine sport, i'faith. Sirrah, let's stand close, and when they have fought a bout or two, we'll run away with the torch, and leave them to fight darkling, shall we?

BOY. Content; I'll get the torch: stand close.

COOMES. So now my back hath room to reach: I do not love to be lac'd in, when I go to lace a rascal. I pray God, Nicholas prove not a fly:[403] it would do me good to deal with a good man now, that we might have half-a-dozen good smart strokes. Ha, I have seen the day I could have danc'd in my fight, one, two, three, four, and five, on the head of him; six, seven, eight, nine, and ten on the sides of him; and, if I went so far as fifteen, I warrant I shewed[404] him a trick of one-and-twenty; but I have not fought this four days, and I lack a little practice of my ward; but I shall make a shift: ha, close [Aside]. —Are ye disposed, sir?

NICH. Yes, indeed, I fear no colours: change sides, Richard.

COOMES. Change the gallows! I'll see thee hang'd first.

NICH. Well, I see the fool will not leave his bable[405] for the Tower of London.

COOMES. Fool, ye rogue! nay, then, fall to it.

NICH. Good goose, bite not.

COOMES. 'Sblood, how pursy I am! Well, I see exercise is all: I must practice my weapons oft'ner; I must have a goal or two at foot-ball, before I come to my right kind [Aside]. Give me thy hand, Nicholas: thou art a better man than I took thee for, and yet thou art not so good a man as I.

NICH. You dwell by ill-neighbours, Richard; that makes ye praise yourself.

COOMES. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man?

NICH. Yes, I'll say so, if I should see ye hang'd.

COOMES. Hang'd, ye rogue! nay, then, have at ye.

[While they fight, exeunt HODGE and BOY with the torch.]

Zounds, the light is gone!

NICH. O Lord, it is as dark as pitch!

COOMES. Well, here I'll lie, with my buckler thus, lest striking up and down at randall[406] the rogue might hurt me, for I cannot see to save it, and I'll hold my peace, lest my voice should bring him where I am. [Stand aside.]

NICH. 'Tis good to have a cloak for the rain; a bad shift is better than none at all; I'll sit here, as if I were as dead as a door-nail. [Stand aside.][407]

Enter MR BARNES and MR GOURSEY.

MR GOUR. Hark! there's one hallooes.

MR BARNES. And there's another.

MR GOUR. And everywhere we come, I hear some halloo, And yet it is our haps to meet with none.

MR BAR. I marvel where your Hodge is and my man.

MR GOUR. Ay, and our wives? we cannot meet with them, Nor with the boy, nor Mall, nor Frank, nor Philip, Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we ne'er stood still. Well, I am very angry with my wife, And she shall find I am not pleas'd with her, If we meet ne'er so soon: but 'tis my hope[408] She hath had as blind a journey on't as we; Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be!

MR BAR. This is but short-liv'd envy[409], Master Goursey: But, come, what say ye to my policy?

MR GOUR. I'faith, 'tis good, and we will practise it; But, sir, it must be handled cunningly, Or all is marr'd; our wives have subtle heads, And they will soon perceive a drift device.

Enter SIR RALPH SMITH.

SIR RALPH. So ho!

MR GOUR. So ho!

SIR RALPH. Who there?

MR BAR. Here's one or two.

SIR RALPH. Is Will there?

MR BAR. No. Philip?

MR GOUR. Frank?

SIR RALPH. No, no.— Was ever man deluded thus like me? I think some spirit leads me thus amiss, As I have often heard that some have been Thus in the nights. But yet this mazes me; where e'er I come, Some asks me still for Frank or Philip, And none of them can tell me where Will is. [Aside.

WILL. So ho!

PHIL. So ho! [They hallo within.

HOD. So ho!

BOY. So ho!

SIR RALPH. Zounds, now I hear four halloo at the least! One had a little voice; then, that's the wench My man hath lost: well, I will answer all. [_Aside.] —So ho!

[Enter HODGE.]

HOD. Whoop, whoop!

SIR RALPH. Who's there? Will?

HOD. No, sir; honest Hodge: but, I pray ye, sir, did ye not meet with a boy with a torch? he is run away from me, a plague on him!

SIR RALPH. Heyday, from Frank and Philip to a torch, And to a boy! nay, zounds, then, hap as 'twill. [Aside.

[Exeunt SIR RALPH and HODGE severally.

MR GOUR. Who goes there?

[Enter WILL.]

WILL. Guess here.

MR BAR. Philip?

WILL. Philip! no, faith; my name's Will—ill-Will, for I was never worse: I was even now with him, and might have been still, but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, and now I am going up and down to seek him.

MR GOUR. What would'st thou do with him?

WILL. Why, I would have him go with me to my master's.

MR GOUR. Who's thy master?

WILL. Why, Sir Ralph Smith; and thither he promis'd me he would come; if he keep his word, so 'tis.

MR BAR. What was a[410] doing, when thou first found'st him?

WILL. Why, he halloo'd for one Francis, and Francis halloo'd for him; I halloo'd for my master, and my master for me; but we miss'd still, meeting contrary, Philip and Francis with me and my master, and I and my master with Philip and Frank.

MR GOUR. Why, wherefore is Sir Ralph so late abroad?

WILL. Why, he meant to kill a buck; I'll say so to save his honesty, but my Nan was his mark [Aside]. And he sent me for his bow, and when I came, I halloo'd for him; but I never saw such luck to miss him; it hath almost made me mad.

MR BAR. Well, stay with us; perhaps Sir Ralph and he will come anon: hark! I do hear one halloo.

Enter PHILIP.

PHIL. Is this broad waking in a winter's night? I am broad walking in a winter's night— Broad indeed, because I am abroad— But these broad fields, methinks, are not so broad That they may keep me forth of narrow ditches. Here's a hard world! For I can hardly keep myself upright in it: I am marvellous dutiful—but, so ho!

WILL. So ho!

PHIL. Who's there?

WILL. Here's Will.

PHIL. What, Will! how 'scap'st thou?

WILL. What, sir?

PHIL. Nay, not hanging, but drowning: wert thou in a pond or a ditch?

WILL. A pestilence on it! is't you, Philip? no, faith, I was but dirty a little: but here's one or two ask'd for ye.

PHIL. Who be they, man?

MR BAR. Philip, 'tis I and Master Goursey.

PHIL. Father, O father, I have heard them say The days of ignorance are pass'd and done; But I am sure the nights of ignorance Are not yet pass'd, for this is one of them. But where's my sister?

MR BAR. Why, we cannot tell.

PHIL. Where's Francis?

MR GOUR. Neither saw we him.

PHIL. Why, this is fine. What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till[411] now, Can meet, could meet, or e'er, I think, shall meet! Call ye this wooing? no, 'tis Christmas sport Of Hob-man-blind[412], all blind, all seek to catch, All miss—but who comes here?

Enter FRANK and his BOY.

FRAN. O, have I catch'd ye, sir? It was your doing That made me have this pretty dance to-night; Had not you spoken, my mother had not scar'd me: But I will swinge ye for it.

PHIL. Keep the king's peace!

FRAN. How! art thou become a constable? Why, Philip, where hast thou been all this while?

PHIL. Why, where you were not: but, I pray [you], where's my sister?

FRAN. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her, As I should seek—

PHIL. A needle, have ye not? Why you, man, are the needle that she seeks To work withal! Well, Francis, do you hear? You must not answer so, that you have sought her; But have ye found her? faith, and if you have, God give ye joy of that ye found with her!

FRAN[413]. I saw her not: how could I find her?

MR GOUR. Why, could ye miss from Master Barnes's house Unto his coney-burrow?

FRAN. Whether I could or no, father, I did.

PHIL. Father, I did! Well, Frank, wilt thou believe me? Thou dost not know how much this same doth grieve me: Shall it be said thou miss'd so plain a way, When as so fair a wench did for thee stay?

FRAN. Zounds, man!

PHIL. Zounds, man! and if thou hadst been blind, The coney-burrow thou needest must find. I tell, thee, Francis, had it been my case, And I had been a wooer in thy place, I would have laid my head unto the ground, And scented out my wench's way, like a hound; I would have crept upon my knees all night, And have made the flintstones links to give me light; Nay, man, I would.

FRAN. Good Lord, what you would do! Well, we shall see one day, how you can woo.

MR GOUR. Come, come, we see that we have all been cross'd; Therefore, let's go, and seek them we have lost. [Exeunt

Enter MALL.

[MAL.] Am I alone? doth not my mother come? Her torch I see not, which I well might see, If any way she were coming toward me: Why, then, belike she's gone some other way; And may she go, till I bid her [to] turn! Far shall her way be then, and little fair, Foe she hath hindered me of my good turn; God send her wet and weary, ere she turn! I had been at Oxenford, and to-morrow Have been releas'd from all my maiden's sorrow, And tasted joy, had not my mother been; God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sin! How many maids this night lies in their beds, And dream that they have lost their maidenheads! Such dreams, such slumbers I had too enjoy'd, If waking malice had not them destroy'd. A starved man with double death doth die, To have the meat might save him in his eye, And may not have it: so am I tormented, To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. Well, Frank, although thou wooedst and quickly won, Yet shall my love to thee be never done; I'll run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briars, To come to thee, sole lord of my desires: Short wooing is the best, an hour, not years, For long-debating love is full of fears. But, hark! I hear one tread. O, were't my brother, Or Frank, or any man, but not my mother!

[Enter SIR RALPH SMITH.]

SIR RALPH. O, when will this same year of night have end? Long-look'd for day's sun, when wilt thou ascend? Let not this thieve[414] friend, misty veil of night, Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light, Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetis' bed, Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red; O, stay not long, bright lanthorn of the day, To light my miss'd-way feet to my right way!

MAL. It is a man, his big voice tells me so, Much am I not acquainted with it, tho'; And yet mine ear, sound's true distinguisher, Boys[415] that I have been more familiar With it than now I am: well, I do judge, It is no envious fellow, out[416] of grudge; Therefore I'll plead acquaintance, hire his guiding, And buy of him some place of close abiding, Till that my mother's malice be expir'd, And we may joy in that is long desired [Aside] —Who's there?

SIR RALPH. Are ye a maid? No question, this is she My man doth miss: faith, since she lights on me, I do not mean till day to let her go; For whe'er[417] she is my man's love, I will know [Aside Hark ye, maid, if [a] maid, are ye so light, That you can see to wander in the night?

MAL. Hark ye, true man, if true, I tell ye, no; I cannot see at all which way I go.

SIR RALPH. Fair maid, is't so? say, had ye ne'er a fall?

MAL. Fair man, not so; no, I had none at all.

SIR RALPH. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray?

MAL. No, no such block till now came in my way.

SIR RALPH. Am I that block, sweet tripe; then, fall and try.

MAL. The ground's too hard a feather-bed; not I.

SIR RALPH. Why, how, and you had met with such a stump?

MAL. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jump.

SIR RALPH. Are ye so nimble?

MAL. Nimble as a doe.

SIR RALPH. Bak'd in a pie.

MAL. Of ye.

SIR RALPH. Good meat, ye know.

MAL. Ye hunt sometimes?

SIR RALPH. I do.

MAL. What take ye?

SIR RALPH. Deer.

MAL. You'll ne'er strike rascal[418]?

SIR RALPH. Yes, when ye are there.

MAL. Will ye strike me?

SIR RALPH. Yes: will ye strike again?

MAL. No, sir: it fits not maids to fight with men.

SIR RALPH. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.

MAL. Why, you may find it, sir, in th'Christcross row[419].

SIR RALPH. Be my schoolmistress, teach me how to spell it.

MAL. No, faith, I care not greatly, if I tell it; My name is Mary Barnes.

SIR RALPH. How, wench? Mall Barnes!

MAL. The very same.

SIR RALPH. Why, this is strange.

MAL. I pray, sir, what's your name?

SIR RALPH. Why, Sir Ralph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; Why, what's the cause thou art abroad so late?

MAL. What, Sir Ralph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose All the whole cause to him, in him repose My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send Our loves and both our mothers' hates to end. [Aside.] —Gentle Sir Ralph, if you my blush might see, You then would say I am ashamed to be Found, like a wand'ring stray, by such a knight, So far from home at such a time of night: But my excuse is good; love first by fate Is cross'd, controll'd, and sundered by fell hate. Frank Goursey is my love, and he loves me; But both our mothers hate and disagree; Our fathers like the match and wish it done; And so it had, had not our mothers come; To Oxford we concluded both to go; Going to meet, they came; we parted so; My mother followed me, but I ran fast, Thinking who went from hate had need make haste; Take me she cannot, though she still pursue: But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you; Be you my orator and plead my right, And get me one good day for this bad night.

SIR RALPH. Alas, good heart, I pity thy hard hap! And I'll employ all that I may for thee. Frank Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choice: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seek my man,—then, that was he,— And Philip too,—belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did lose myself, And wander[420] up and down, mistaking so. Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave, Till I have made your mothers friends again, And purchas'd to ye both your hearts' delight, And for this same one bad many a good night. 'Twill not be long, ere that Aurora will, Deck'd in the glory of a golden sun, Open the crystal windows of the east, To make the earth enamour'd of her face, When we shall have clear light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day.

[_Exeunt.

Enter_ MISTRESS BARNES.

MRS BAR. O, what a race this peevish girl hath led me! How fast I ran, and now how weary I am! I am so out of breath I scarce can speak,— What shall I do?—and cannot overtake her. 'Tis late and dark, and I am far from home: May there not thieves lie watching hereabout, Intending mischief unto them they meet? There may; and I am much afraid of them, Being alone without all company. I do repent me of my coming forth; And yet I do not,—they had else been married, And that I would not for ten times more labour. But what a winter of cold fear I thole[421], Freezing my heart, lest danger should betide me! What shall I do to purchase company? I hear some halloo here about the fields: Then here I'll set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost their way, seeing a light, For it may be seen far off in the night, Will come to it. Well, here I'll lie unseen, And look who comes, and choose my company. Perhaps my daughter may first come to it.

[Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY.]

MRS GOUR. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now? Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. I think I am going home: I may as well Be[422] going from home; 'tis[423] so very dark, I cannot see how to direct a step. I lost my man, pursuing of my son; My son escap'd me too: now, all alone, I am enforc'd[424] to wander up and down. Barnes's wife's[425] abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a dance, nay, ten times worse! O, but I fear she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[426] bridge would break, That she might fall into some deep digg'd ditch, And either break her bones or drown herself! I would these mischiefs I could wish to her Might light on her!—but, soft; I see a light: I will go near; it is comfortable, After this night's sad spirits-dulling darkness. How now? what, is it set to keep itself?

MRS BAR. A plague on't, is she there? [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. O, how it cheers and quickens up my thoughts!

MRS BAR. O that it were the basilisk's fell eye, To poison thee! [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. I care not, if I take it— Sure none is here to hinder me— And light me home.

MRS BAR. I had rather she were hang'd Than I should set it there to do her good. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. I'faith, I will.

MRS BAR. I'faith, you shall not, mistress; I'll venture a burnt finger but I'll have it. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. Yet Barnes's wife would chafe, if that she knew, That I had this good luck to get a light.

MRS BAR. And so she doth; but praise your[427] luck at parting. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. O, that it were[428] her light, good faith, that she Might darkling walk about as well as I!

MRS BAR. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. How I would laugh to see her trot about!

MRS BAR. O, I could cry for anger and for rage! [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. But who should set it here, I marv'l, a God's name.

MRS BAR. One that will have't from you in the devil's name. Aside.]

MRS GOUR. I'll lay my life that it was Barnes's son.

MRS BAR. No, forsooth, it was Barnes's wife.

MRS GOUR. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [Aside.] Mistress, let go the torch.

MRS BAR. No, but I will not.

MRS GOUR. I'll thrust it in thy face, then.

MRS BAR. But you shall not.

MRS GOUR. Let go, I say.

MRS BAR. Let you go, for 'tis mine.

MRS GOUR. But my possession says, it is none of thine.

MRS BAR. Nay, I have hold too.

MRS GOUR. Well, let go thy hold, Or I will spurn thee.

MRS BAR. Do; I can spurn thee too.

MRS GOUR. Canst thou?

MRS BAR. Ay, that I can.

Enter MASTER GOURSEY and MASTER BARNES, [PHILIP, FRANK, &c.]

MR GOUR. Why, how now, women? how unlike to women Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say.

MR BAR. Why, what immodesty is this in you! Come, part, I say; fie, fie.

MRS BAR. Fie, fie? I say she shall not have my torch.— Give me thy torch, boy:—I will run a-tilt, And burn out both her eyes in my encounter.

MRS GOUR. Give room, and let us have this hot career[429].

MR GOUR. I say ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts, That are so mad with fury.

MR BAR. And, sweet wife, Temper your rage with patience; do not be Subject so much to such misgovernment.

MRS BAR. Shall I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me?

MR GOUR. How, strumpet, Mistress Barnes! nay, I pray, hark ye: I oft indeed have heard ye call her so, And I have thought upon it, why ye should Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know Any hurt by her, that you term her so?

MR BAR. No, on my life; rage only makes her say so.

MR GOUR. But I would know whence this same rage should come; Where's smoke, there's fire; and my heart misgives My wife's intemperance hath got that name;— And, Mistress Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly[430] doubt, And some great cause begets this doubt in me, Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both.

MR BAR. How, think ye so? nay, Master Goursey, then, You run in debt to my opinion, Because you pay not such advised wisdom, As I think due unto my good conceit.

MR GOUR. Then still I fear I shall your debtor prove.

[MR BAR.] Then I arrest you in the name of love; Not bail, but present answer to my plea; And in the court of reason we will try, If that good thoughts should believe jealousy.

PHIL. Why, look ye, mother, this is 'long of you.— For God's sake, father, hark? why, these effects Come still from women's malice: part, I pray.— Coomes, Will, and Hodge, come all, and help us part them!— Father, but hear me speak one word—no more.

FRAN. Father, but hear him[431] speak, then use your will.

PHIL. Cry peace between ye for a little while.

MRS GOUR. Good husband, hear him speak

MRS BAR. Good husband, hear him.

COOMES. Master, hear him speak; he's a good wise young stripling for his years, I tell ye, and perhaps may speak wiser than an elder body; therefore hear him.

HOD. Master, hear; and make an end; you may kill one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest.

MR GOUR. Come, let us hear him. Then speak quickly, Philip.

MR BAR. Thou shouldst have done ere this; speak, Philip, speak.

MRS BAR. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt yourselves!— Good Philip, use some good persuasions To make them friends.

PHIL. Yes, I'll do what I can.— Father and Master Goursey, both attend. It is presumption in so young a man To teach where he might learn, or to[432] direct, Where he hath had direction; but in duty He may persuade as long as his persuase Is back'd with reason and a rightful suit. Physic's first rule is this, as I have learned: Kill the effect by cutting off the cause. The same effects of ruffian outrages Comes by the cause of malice in your wives; Had not they two been foes, you had been friends, And we had been at home, and this same war In peaceful sleep had ne'er been dreamt upon. Mother and Mistress Goursey, to make them friends, Is to be friends yourselves: you are the cause, And these effects proceed, you know, from you; Your hates gives life unto these killing strifes, But die, and if that envy[433] die in you.— Fathers, yet stay.—O, speak!—O, stay a while!— Francis, persuade thy mother.—Master Goursey, If that my mother will resolve[434] your mind[435] That 'tis but mere suspect, not common proof, And if my father swear he's innocent, As I durst pawn my soul with him he is, And if your wife vow truth and constancy, Will you be then persuaded?

MR GOUR. Philip, if thy father will remit The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions May be performed, I banish all my wrath.

MR BAR. And if thy mother will but clear me, Philip, As I am ready to protest I am, Then Master Goursey is my friend again.

PHIL. Hark, mother; now you hear that your desires May be accomplished; they will both be friends, If you'll perform these easy articles.

MRS BAR. Shall I be friends with such an enemy?

PHIL. What say you[436] unto my persuase?

MRS BAR. I say she's[437] my deadly enemy.

PHIL. Ay, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.

MRS BAR. The words I said! what, shall I eat a truth?

PHIL. Why, hark ye, mother.

FRAN. Mother, what say you?

MRS GOUR. Why, this I say, she slandered my good name.

FRAN. But if she now deny it, 'tis no defame.

MRS GOUR. What, shall I think her hate will yield so much?

FRAN. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such.

MR GOUR. Why, will it be?

PHIL. Yet stay, I have some hope. Mother, why, mother, why, hear ye[438]: Give me your hand; it is no more but thus; 'Tis easy labour to shake hands with her: Little[439] breath is spent in speaking of fair words, When wrath hath violent delivery.

MR BAR. What, shall we be resolv'd?

MRS BAR. O husband, stay!— Stay, Master Goursey: though your wife doth hate me, And bears unto me malice infinite And endless, yet I will respect your safeties; I would not have you perish by our means: I must confess that only suspect, And no proof else, hath fed my hate to her.

MRS GOUR. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth That her suspect is causeless and unjust, And that I ne'er had such a vild[440] intent; Harm she imagin'd, where as none was meant.

PHIL. Lo, sir, what would ye more?

MR BAR. Yes, Philip, this; That I confirm him in my innocence By this large universe.

MR GOUR. By that I swear, I'll credit none of you, until I hear Friendship concluded straight between them two: If I see that they willingly will do, Then I'll imagine all suspicion ends; I may be then assured, they being friends.

PHIL. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so.

MRS BAR. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe?

PHIL. No: if she yield, will you?

MRS BAR. It may be, ay.

PHIL. Why, this is well. The other I will try.— Come, Mistress Goursey, do you first agree.

MRS GOUR. What, shall I yield unto mine enemy?

PHIL. Why, if she will, will you?

MRS GOUR. Perhaps I will

PHIL. Nay, then, I find this goes well forward still. Mother, give me your hand [to MRS G.], give me yours too— Be not so loth; some good thing I must do; But lay your torches by, I like not them; Come, come, deliver them unto your men: Give me your hands. So, now, sir, here I stand, Holding two angry women in my hand: And I must please them both; I could please tone[441], But it is hard when there is two to one, Especially of women; but 'tis so, They shall be pleas'd, whether they will or no.— Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither! Why, then, yond help that both may come together[442]. So, stand still, stand [still] but a little while, And see, how I your angers will beguile. Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me Join these two hands, and see how they'll agree: Peace, peace! they cry; look how they friendly kiss! Well, all this while there is no harm in this: Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike, If tone speaks fair, the tother should not strike: Jesus, the warriors will not offer blows! Why, then, 'tis strange that you two should be foes. O yes, you'll say, your weapons are your tongues; Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs: Go to, embrace, and say, if you be friends, That here the angry women's quarrels ends.

MRS GOUR. Then here it ends, if Mistress Barnes say so.

MRS BAR. If you say ay, I list not to say no.

MR GOUR. If they be friends, by promise we agree.

MR BAR. And may this league of friendship ever be!

PHIL. What say'st thou, Frank? doth not this fall out well?

FRAN. Yes, if my Mall were here, then all were well.

Enter SIR RALPH SMITH with MALL. [MALL stays behind.]

SIR RALPH. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stir not Until I call. God save ye, gentlemen!

MR BAR. What, Sir Ralph Smith! you are welcome, man: We wond'red when we heard you were abroad.

SIR RALPH. Why, sir, how heard ye that I was abroad?

MR BAR. By your man.

SIR RALPH. My man! where is he?

WILL. Here.

SIR RALPH. O, ye are a trusty squire!

NICH. It had been better, and he had said, a sure card.

PHIL. Why, sir?

NICH. Because it is the proverb.

PHIL. Away, ye ass!

NICH. An ass goes a four legs; I go of two, Christ cross.

PHIL. Hold your tongue.

NICH. And make no more ado.

MR GOUR. Go to, no more ado. Gentle Sir Ralph, Your man is not in fault for missing you, For he mistook by us, and we by him.

SIR RALPH. And I by you, which now I well perceive. But tell me, gentlemen, what made ye all Be from your beds this night, and why thus late Are your wives walking here about the fields[443]: 'Tis strange to see such women of accompt Here; but I guess some great occasion [prompt.]

MR GOUR. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jar; And jar they did to-day, and so they parted; We, knowing women's malice let alone Will, canker-like, eat farther in their hearts, Did seek a sudden cure, and thus it was: A match between his daughter and my son; No sooner motioned but 'twas agreed, And they no sooner saw but wooed and lik'd: They have it sought to cross, and crossd it thus.

SIR RALPH. Fie, Mistress Barnes and Mistress Goursey both; The greatest sin wherein your souls may sin, I think, is this, in crossing of true love: Let me persuade ye.

MRS BAR. Sir, we are persuaded, And I and Mistress Goursey are both friends; And, if my daughter were but found again, Who now is missing, she had my consent To be dispos'd of to her own content.

SIR RALPH. I do rejoice that what I thought to do, Ere I begin, I find already done: Why, this will please your friends at Abington. Frank, if thou seek'st that way, there thou shalt find Her, whom I hold the comfort of thy mind.

MAL. He shall not seek me; I will seek him out, Since of my mother's grant I need not doubt.

MR[S] BAR. Thy mother grants, my girl, and she doth pray To send unto you both a joyful day!

HOD. Nay, Mistress Barnes, I wish her better: that those joyful days may be turn'd to joyful nights.

COOMES. Faith, 'tis a pretty wench, and 'tis pity but she should have him.

NICH. And, Mistress Mary, when ye go to bed, God send you good rest, and a peck of fleas in your nest, every one as big as Francis!

PHIL. Well said, wisdom! God send thee wise children!

NICH. And you more money.

PHIL. Ay, so wish I.

NICH. 'Twill be a good while, ere you wish your skin full of eyelet-holes.

PHIL. Frank, hark ye: brother, now your wooing's done, The next thing now you do is for a son, I prythee; for, i'faith, I should be glad To have myself called nunkle[444], and thou dad. Well, sister, if that Francis play the man, My mother must be grandam and you mam. To it, Francis—to it, sister!—God send ye joy! 'Tis fine to sing, dancey, my own sweet boy!

FRAN. Well, sir, jest on.

PHIL. Nay, sir[445], do you jest on.

MR BAR. Well, may she prove a happy wife to him!

MR GOUR. And may he prove as happy unto her!

SIR RALPH. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both! Since 'twas my hap thus happily to meet, To be a witness of this sweet contract, I do rejoice; wherefore, to have this joy Longer present with me, I do request That all of you will be my promis'd guests: This long night's labour doth desire some rest, Besides this wished end; therefore, I pray, Let me detain ye but a dinner time: Tell me, I pray, shall I obtain so much?

MR BAR. Gentle Sir Ralph, your courtesy is such, As may impose command unto us all; We will be thankful bold at your request.

PHIL. I pray, Sir Ralph, what cheer shall we have?

SIR RALPH. I'faith, country fare, mutton and veal, Perchance a duck or goose [upon the platter.]

MAL. O, I am sick!

ALL. How now, Mall? what's the matter?

MAL. Father and mother, if you needs would know, He nam'd a goose, which is my stomach's foe.

PHIL. Come, come, she is with child of some odd jest, And now she's sick, till that she bring[446] it forth.

MAL. A jest, quoth you! well, brother, if it be, I fear 'twill prove an earnest unto me. Goose, said ye, sir? O, that same very name Hath in it much variety of shame! Of all the birds that ever yet was seen, I would not have them graze upon this green; I hope they will not, for this crop is poor, And they may pasture upon greater store: But yet 'tis pity that they let them pass, And like a common bite the Muse's grass. Yet this I fear: if Frank and I should kiss, Some creaking goose would chide us with a hiss; I mean not that goose that Sings it knows not what; 'Tis not that hiss, when one says, "hist, come hither," Nor that same hiss that setteth dogs together, Nor that same hiss that by a fire doth stand, And hisseth T. or F.[447] upon the hand; But 'tis a hiss, and I'll unlace my coat, For I should sound[448] sure, if I heard that note, And then green ginger for the green goose cries, Serves not the turn—I turn'd the white of eyes. The rosa-solis yet that makes me live Is favour[449] that these gentlemen may give; But if they be displeased, then pleas'd am I To yield myself a hissing death to die. Yet I hope here is[450] none consents to kill, But kindly take the favour of good-will. If any thing be in the pen to blame, Then here stand I to blush the writer's shame: If this be bad, he promises a better; Trust him, and he will prove a right true debtor.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.



LOOK ABOUT YOU.



_EDITION.

A Pleasant Commodie called Looke About you. As it was lately played by the right honourable the Lord High Admirall his seruaunts. London, Printed for William Ferbrand, and are to be solde at his shop at the signe of the Crowne neere Guildhall gate_. 1600. 4to.

This drama is now first reprinted from the original edition, which has no division into acts and scenes. Mr Halliwell ("Dict. of Old Plays," 1860, p. 149) observes: "This is a diverting play, and the plot of it is founded on the English historians of the reign of Henry II."[451]

"Look About You" is not only a pleasant comedy, full of bustle and amusing episodes, and abundantly stored with illustrations of manners, but it is a piece which exhibits, on the part of the unknown writer, a considerable share of power and originality. The crazed Earl of Gloucester is not an ill-conceived character, and may have supplied a hint to Shakespeare; and the cross-purposes, stratagems, and deceptions, of which it is full, remind us of our great dramatist's own "Comedy of Errors," with which, however, it has nothing in common. It is by no means improbable, at the same time, that "Look About You," and not Shakespeare's play, was the piece performed at Gray's Inn in December 1594.[452]

Skink, who fills the part assigned to the vice in the earlier comedies, is a well-sustained and entertaining character, and the series of transformations which he and the rest undergo, even while they occasionally perplex us a little, as the plot thickens, and the figures on the stage multiply, can hardly fail to amuse.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE[453]

HENRY II., King of England. PRINCE HENRY, the young usurped King. PRINCE JOHN. PRINCE RICHARD. EARLS OF GLOUCESTER, LANCASTER, CHESTER, LEICESTER, and MORTON. SIR RICHARD FAUCONBRIDGE. ROBIN HOOD, Earl of Huntington. SKINK, disguised as a hermit. THE QUEEN. LADY FAUCONBRIDGE. BLOCK. Warden of the Fleet. REDCAP, a messenger. Constable and Watch. A Pursuivant. A Drawer. Music.



A PLEASANT COMEDY CALLED LOOK ABOUT YOU.



SCENE THE FIRST.

Enter ROBERT HOOD, a young Nobleman, a Servant with him, with riding wands in their hands, as if they had been new-lighted.

ROB. Go, walk the horses, wait me on the hill; This is the hermit's cell; go out of sight. My business with him must not be reveal'd To any mortal creature but himself.

SERV. I'll wait your honour in the cross highway. [Exit.

ROB. Do so. Hermit devout and reverend, If drowsy age keep not thy stiffened joints On thy unrestful bed, or if the hours Of holy orisons detain thee not, Come forth.

Enter SKINK, like an hermit.

SKINK. Good morrow, son, Good morrow; and God bless thee, Huntington, A brighter gleam of true nobility Shines not in any youth more than in thee. Thou shalt be rich in honour, full of speed; Thou shalt win foes by fear, and friends by meed.